


Thin Ice

by Dexterity



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christine Everhart is a beard, Closeted Character, Coach/Player Relationship, How Do I Tag, Ice Skating, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, May Parker is a mama bear, Mentor/Protégé, Older Man/Younger Man, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker is Adorable, Peter Parker is also a little bit sad, Peter Parker is nineteen, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-03 20:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterity/pseuds/Dexterity
Summary: Tony Stark is a disgraced, former professional figure skater with a drinking problem, daddy issues, and a girlfriend who has no idea he doesn't swing her way. Peter Parker is his prodigious student, who might just teach Tony as much off the ice as he learns from him on it.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Flashbacks in italics. Full notes at the bottom.

 

_He's magic on the ice. Moves like he's made of elastic and weighs less than a downy, feather pillow. No fear of a blade sharp enough to carve open his skin like it's creamery butter, or the hard, frigid fall that keeps festive skaters fearfully giggling and clinging to the rink's edge, playing off the dread of balancing their entire being on a knife's edge. People throw around the word “prodigy” a lot these days, in the age of the participation trophy - Tony knows that better than many. But the first time he sees Peter ebb seamlessly into a damn near perfect Salchow at fifteen years of age, he knows it's the real deal. It's the only reason he agrees to set foot on the ice again._

 

 

  
●●●●●●●●●●●●  


 

 

“Keep your goddamned chin up, Parker. How many times do I have to tell you? My grandma has better posture than you and she was in the ground before you were an idea in somebody's head!” Tony bellows, slamming his hand down on the edge of the rink with a ricocheting finality that ping-pongs off the cavernous acoustics of the high ceiling. They're practicing without music today; makes it easier for Tony to hear the timing, gives Peter no room to sneak a potentially parasitic habitual error into his program. No room for mistakes.

 

Peter startles, peers back over his shoulder, and there's a record scratch like quality to the sudden, halting scrape of his skates on the ice. “What? It _was_ up, Mr. Stark,” he argues, bemused. Noticeably, his frame instantly gains an inch in height. He's far from tall even with it.

 

“Don't argue, just do it. Again, from the lutz.”

 

Peter huffs, but diligent student that he is, gets right back to it, from the top. They're leaking into their third hour on the ice - both cold, both irritable, reaching the end of their collective tether but unwilling to submit to the exhaustion and call it a night, sacrificing preparation. They can't. The competition in three days is Peter's best chance to establish himself among his rivals before the real game starts, and Tony has as much riding on the boy as he can have at stake. He could be out right now, ringing up a suburban housewife’s total at a cash register in some department store; or tapping, dead-eyed at a computer in an office that smells like moth balls, but he's not. This needs to work, or he will be.

 

Peter's wrecked. His bones creak and his muscles ache, saturated with lactic acid and _burning_ like he's dousing them in hot water, but he can't stop himself. Every axel, every landing - it _has_ to be perfection. He wants to be reckless, wants to kick his blade savagely through the low wall around the ice to vent the dam of frustrated exhaustion, but he can't. He can't lose again.

 

It's nearly dark by the time Tony calls a wrap. Peter's rehearsed his routine perfectly, five times in a row. Tony's been counting, never telling the kid they weren't leaving until he reached the tally, because he knew he would do so of his own volition, sooner or later. Peter glides, panting harshly, to lean with his elbows on top of the wall, forehead pressed into his arms while his narrow back rises and distends sharply. There's sweat in a sheen all over his pale skin, glistening like a hundred-thousand diamonds, and the air around him turns each droplet from fire to ice before it fully forms.

 

“Hey. Take it easy. Here.’

 

Tony's on the other side of the wall, on solid ground with a water bottle in hand, and Peter doesn't know whether it's the floor or the refreshment he'll be more grateful to receive. His mentor's expression has softened a touch, but there's no real sympathy in it. Never is. It's not that he doesn't feel for the kid - he's been in those skates, felt every emotion that drags Peter away from perfection - but he can't wrap him in cotton wool, can't coddle him like the kid's aunt does. Tony's his coach, his mentor. Not his father.

 

Peter weakly takes the bottle and gulps like a man who's spent a month on rations, draining it to the last, straggling drops in remarkable time, then hands it back.

 

“Better?” Peter asks, and Tony tries not to notice the plea he's poorly containing in his voice.

 

“Yeah, better. Looks good, kid. Mechanically, perfect. I just need you to remember that it's not only about landing the shots, it's about-”

 

“How you shoot them,” Peter interjects, glancing up between the damp, stringy bangs that cling to his forehead in places, a weak smile curling the corner of his mouth.

 

Tony pauses. Nods. Maybe he sounds like a broken record sometimes, but only because he knows what he's talking about. He's lived that. He's missed the shot, by large and narrow margins. The thought of the former leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he pushes it away before it can sink icy claws into him. He's already freezing his fucking ass off without a chill on the inside to match. “Right. Take tomorrow off. Come back Friday morning, we'll do some light rehearsal with the music. Dress rehearsal.”

 

Peter seems to perk up at that, his eyes brighter and grin broader. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

 

“Sure, kid. Get outta here.”

 

He does. Peter often reminds Tony of a penguin, when he considers it. Impossibly graceful in his natural habitat, a true feat of human athleticism and a marvel to behold. But once he's off the ice, he's all knees and elbows without the excuse of even being tall to support a claim. Tony eyes him sidelong, watching in his periphery as Peter struggles to the bench to get his skates off. Doesn't hang around, because there's no need. Tony offers a light, stiff, smile and wheels out past Peter's aunt, May, before she can confront him with questions and concerns he doesn't have the energy to pacify.

 

 

   
●●●●●●●●●●●●

 

 

 

Christine's waiting for him when he gets home to their domestically horrifying two-bed. Rented, not bought. Dated, retro kitchen with faded yellow cabinets straight out of suburban, nineties hell. There's a weird, musty smell in the poky building that no amount of cleaning will seem to shift; Tony's convinced it's trapped in the mauve and sienna, paisley carpet, but he can't promise it's not a suspicion he holds because of his aesthetic hatred for the thing. Couches from his father's old place - most of the furniture, actually. Whatever Tony hadn't wrecked or needed to sell in the interim. Before he'd poured the money into perishables and recklessness, things had been good; even better when Howard wasn't there to undermine his every waking moment. Tony wouldn't say he misses him. He misses the money. If Howard's shadow’s stayed lingering over him so long after his untimely demise, it seems unfair that his money wasn't as stubborn.

 

“Hey, handsome,” she's carving through a tray piled high with lasagna. Tony's stomach growls appreciatively at the promise of carbs and dairy, but his brain is fixed on the bottles of liquor on the counter in varying stages of consumption. He knows he'd remark on her efforts if he was any kind of decent man. She's done something to her hair, though he's not entirely sure what. Not the color, no. Perhaps it has more of a curl to it than usual, but Tony's at a loss to say whether he's fabricating that or not. New lipstick? Red lipstick. That's unusual for her.

 

“Hey. Smells good,” Tony grins, plasters it all over his face because he knows it keeps her happy. He doesn't want to argue anymore, just scoots in behind her and presses a kiss to her cheek, takes the meal she's offering. It's steaming hot, and the ungrateful perfectionist in him wants to remark that the plate is freezing cold, but he keeps it to himself. He's not at the rink now. She's not paying him for his opinion, and for damn sure won't thank him for it.

 

She joins him on the inherited couch, they eat in companionable silence. Some game show with an frustratingly jubilant host, Tony's not really paying attention. His mind's on the competition, on what he'd witnessed on the ice. His right hand methodically shovels lasagna noodles drowned in store bought, too-sweet, marinara sauce while his left taps out the rhythm of Peter's meticulously selected performance music on the underside of the plate. He doesn't even realize that Christine's speaking to him until the room seems to fill with a pregnant silence.

 

“Huh? Sorry, babe. I'm just not with it today. What were you saying?”

 

Christine smiles fondly and reaches over to pat his knee. Tony doesn't flinch away, but only because he's practiced so much that it's second nature to him now. Maybe more so than the triple lutz ever was. The reaction isn't automatic anymore. He can stifle it like a cough. “You work too hard, baby. C’mere. Let me take your mind off your hard day,” she offers with a coquettish blink of long, spidery lashes. Her fingers trail along the outer seam of Tony's pants, creeping uninvited towards his inner thigh. He glances down, gently lifts a hand to stop her at the wrist. He hopes it's a gesture she considers affectionate, rather than dismissive.

 

“Honey, I'm not… I don't think I have the energy tonight,” Tony explains, feigning an abashed, shameful expression as best he can. It's one Christine must by now be absurdly familiar with, but he's surprised to find she's not. Maybe she knows he'll change his mind later, when he's too drunk to be aware of who he's rutting into the mattress. Like always.

 

She takes the rejection on the chin. There's amicable chatter: her day, his day. This, that. He tells her that Peter was sensational on the ice, because Peter always is, in spite of his shortcomings and disobedient tendencies; she details a funny conversation from the staff room at work, and Tony actually catches himself chuckling in response. Christine hangs around for a drink, which is unusual in itself, and it makes Tony wonder. She's a creature of habit - it's the only reason she hasn't walked out on him yet. He has no excuse, not really; he just needs somebody to listen while he talks. But it's just one drink, before she slinks off to their bedroom with a coy, little smirk. Like always.

 

Tony gets into the bourbon on the counter, and all too soon, the amber liquid within depletes by a visible chunk, then another. He watches the writing on the label blur, almost lets a chuckle slip out as he closes one eye, then the other in an attempt to read the fine print.

 

He never does it unless he's good and drunk. Never fishes his laptop out from its place on the rickety shelf of their old, mahogany coffee table, embellished with unfortunate, tarnished metalwork. Never places it on the surface, pops the lid open, taps his fingers on the keys until his screen fills with gaudy colors, flashing ads in every corner, thumbnail after thumbnail of lewd images neatly arranged for his viewing pleasure.

 

It doesn't matter which one he clicks. Tony's not looking for specifics, just gratification. He goes for the most likely looking still frame, then leans back to fumble his belt and pants open. He's already getting hard before the impossibly buff men on screen are fully naked; it's not usually his type, but he's past that… passed it a while ago. By the time one actor has his cock in the other's rosy mouth, Tony's fisting his own dick and biting back a gasp. The volume is low, but he can hear it. Filthy, salacious sucking. Whimpering. Moaning. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine he's there.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, and he bites down so hard he almost breaks skin as he watches a thick cock sheath itself in a tight, wet ring of muscle. Straining hips slapping against a fat ass, gasping, _mewling_ into the sheets. It's a carnal metronome. It's perfect, and Tony's furiously fucking into his hand and coming all over his stomach in sticky ropes before he has the presence of mind to get his shirt out of the way. He collapses, spent, and watches shamefully as the two men continue in their throes of passion. Five minutes to achieve what he can't with her in an hour, no matter how hard or earnestly he tries.

 

He gives himself a moment to recover, to quietly hate himself before he pours another drink.

 

 

 

●●●●●●●●●●●●

 

 

 

_It's perfect._

 

_Tony thinks it's the best he's ever seen Peter move. The judges are eating him up. The crowd is in the palm of his hand. A blush under seventeen, and the kid has all the presence of Freddie Mercury without the need to open his mouth or utter a word. It's going to be a royal flush. Full marks across the board. Tony knows it. Everyone knows it. Nationals are Peter Parker's, and his alone. Until it happens._

 

_Peter does something he shouldn't. Gets caught up in the moment, adds an embellishment they'd never discussed in practice. To an outsider, it seems like nothing. But to Tony, it's anguish. He feels blind fury rise up in his throat like bile as he watches Peter's ankle flick and roll into the hardest landing of the entire program - the triple axel; sees the kid’s knees buckle and his body hurtle across the ice. He's so light that it's ragdoll physics in practice. It's audible over the music. There's silence until a small halo of red appears under Peter's head, spilling over the loop-etched rink like a bloody mary on cubes. Then May Parker starts screaming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this idea for a long time, I just didn't know if I'd be making it a fic or not until I started writing. Just a few notes to start:
> 
> \- There will be no underage sexual activity.  
> \- I'll be using italics to indicate flashbacks throughout this story. These are not linear and Peter is aged anywhere between 15 and 19, but I'll be sure to give some kind of hint alluding to his age so the timeline doesn't get all messy.  
> \- Christine is included as I just went with the most minor character I could think of without spending time making up a new one.  
> \- I'll be adding tags as I go and smut will appear a few chapters down the line, but I love a slow burn and I'm writing as I go.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think, as the more response and feedback I get, the more I'll be motivated!


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little insight.

 

“You don't have to do this.”

 

Peter looks up from his meal, a tasty mouthful of Pad Thai direct from the incredible takeout three blocks over swelling up his cheeks in a comically rodentine manner. He chews hurriedly, and swallows well before it's completely safe to. “Do what?” he croaks, immediately grasping for a glass of water to clear out his throat.

 

May turns, resting her hip against the kitchen counter, and sighs thickly, maternally. “The competition. Any of it. You don't have to go back now. You don't _have_ to go back, ever. You still have time to apply to colleges for next year. Tony would understand just as much as me.”

 

He wouldn't. Peter knows that, and it's the statement that most stirs his impulse to argue, but he doesn't. Tony's still a pressure point on May, even now. He knows she blames him.

 

“I wanna do this, May. I get that you're worried, but I'm gonna be fine. No mistakes this time,” he promises her in an ardent tone, surreptitiously fingering the indented scar hidden amongst his thick, chestnut curls as he leans back in his chair, swinging precariously on the rear legs. The irony of massaging the old injury in precisely the spot that’s most vulnerable if his chair slips is lost on him, but May’s eyes flit between Peter and the chair as if risk-assessing the scenario. She’s overprotective, worse since the fall.

 

He doesn't remember the accident, not really. Just feeling on top of the world one minute, blackness the next. He's never experienced a high like it before or since. His heart racing, adrenalin infecting his DNA and burning his blood so hot it could've melted ice. He wonders if it did - he didn't see it. May had the officials delete every picture of it, Tony won't talk about it even if he asks nicely on the pretence of improving his game. Ned describes it as “gnarly”, and the poetic retelling is enough for Peter to assimilate a rough idea.

 

May think it's fear of what Tony might say, fear of disappointing his hero that keeps Peter stubbornly struggling to get back on the horse. She doesn't realize that she's got it completely ass-backwards; it's fear of becoming Tony. Fear of showing up to work with alcohol staining his breath, fear of looking back with deep regret in the bitter, painful knowledge that he didn't at least make a second attempt. He can’t imagine life without skating, because he’s seen the reality of a man who’s let it slip through his fingers. It's not like every college in the country is going to vaporize before Peter just _tries again._

 

May pouts, relenting. She can tell he's made up his mind by the defiant expression held on his impish face, but it was worth a shot even so. Unconvinced by Peter's enthusiasm but accepting of his choice, May smiles warmly, gently squeezes his strong shoulder as she passes, and he buries himself in his dinner once more.

 

Peter washes up, hovers uncertainly once he's done. He might be too exhausted even to sit on the couch and watch The Wire with May tonight, which is a testament to just how hard his nose is pressed to the grindstone. He’s never poured this much of himself into anything. He’s never been this tired; so he slinks off to bed, on the premise of putting his head down for an hour. Or three, he’s not picky. He feels like some kind of wizened old man as he shuffles across the apartment, imagining that can hear his joints grinding like he’s the Tin Man. Where’s Dorothy when he needs her?

 

Their house is pretty modest, but it’s nice all the same. There are bigger places in town, but theirs is a little slice of suburban paradise, to Peter. Always warm, always scented with pot pourri, always illuminated by the amicable flickering of scented candles. May’s a fan of the chintzy, bohemian, Scandinavian decor mishmash. Peter’s just along for the ride, but his room’s a little haven for him. The walls are practically a corkboard for his mind, plastered here and there with various posters - bands, athletes, movies, whatever catches his eye. There’s books aplenty, though they’ve been neglected, left to gather a layer of dust on Peter’s untouched shelf. It’s standard, for a kid his age. Sometimes Peter feels very standard indeed.

 

He flops onto his bed, and the aging springs seem to chide him for it. _Shoes,_ they protest, and Peter apologetically kicks his off, allowing the sneakers to thump off the edge. One, two.

 

As always, his eye is drawn to his bedside. There are pictures, which he supposes might be old-fashioned of him, in this day and age. He’s seen digital frames, even a re-emergence of polaroids, but Peter’s always been fond of the retro, film printout. There’s one of himself and May, frozen with bright smiles on the occasion of his high school graduation, just months before. He remembers the wobbly puddles collecting in her waterline when he gleefully handed her his diploma, and he wonders if they’ll return if he wins on Saturday. He contemplates whether they’ll be pride, or something less wonderful.

 

Another picture is faded, dulled by the passage of time. It’s one of his parents, and it’s been resident in a brassy, antique frame the longest. The light from the sun has sapped the saturation from some of the colors, turning yellow to sepia and blue to grey; Peter has the negatives if he ever wants to make a fresh copy of their youthful, beaming, jovial faces, but he likes it this way. He feels almost like they’re aging with him. Almost.

 

MJ and Ned are at the forefront, right by Peter’s head. He can’t help but feel a pang when he glances up at them, both boys wincing as they’re held in a chokehold by their taller, female counterpart. All bright-eyed, none with any real understanding of the path ahead, of the coming divergence. He still sees them, of course. Every break, every holiday. But they’re busy, and he understands. So is he. Life hasn’t stayed the same, they’re adjusting accordingly. It’ll take time. All it takes is one late night, three-way call every couple weeks to remind him that they’re still with him; he knows they need it just as badly as he does. They’ll see each other all Summer long, anyway.

 

Finally, there’s a sleek, modern, black frame, facing the bed directly. There are thumbprints on the thin glass, evidence of Peter’s habitual handling of the keepsake. He looks happier than he ever has in the picture. The corners of his eyes are crinkling so hard, it almost ages him, twinning with the older man who has an arm affectionately thrown around his shoulders. There’s a medal around his neck, and Tony looks so proud he could hoist him up like some kind of hero, carry him out of the arena.

 

Peter smiles weakly to himself. That was the semi-finals. His last competition before the accident - the last he can remember. His strongest win to date. God, Tony hadn’t taken his eyes off him all day, hadn’t let his smile slack once, hadn’t stopped telling Peter how _proud_ he was.

 

And he hadn’t touched a drink. Peter remembers that. Not a one, not the whole trip. Not even to celebrate. The memory is like a warm blanket. It’s comforting, it’s familiar, it’s good.

 

He falls asleep just as he so often does: on his side, still fully clothed, face mashed awkwardly into the pillow with drool spilling down out of the corner of his mouth - but facing that picture, the one of him and Tony. He tells himself it’s the reason he dreams about him so frequently, never pausing to consider that he might be drifting off like that on purpose, just so he can comfort himself with a half-decent excuse.

 

  
  
●●●●●●●●●●●●

  
  
  


_Peter looks smaller than ever, and the kid’s never been overly large. He’s just a heap of thin fabric, curls, limbs, eerily pale skin. He fell close enough to the gate that Tony can get onto the ice before the medics do, his sneakers slippery and unsure on the sleek surface. It’s colder than hell is hot when his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t care._

 

_“Kid? Pete? Peter?” he pleads, tilting the boy’s face toward him. Peter groans, hurt but alive, and Tony can’t compress the feeling that floods him into one emotion, so it spills over him like a tide._

 

_“S’okay. It’s okay. Don’t move. We’re gonna get you help, kid. Just lie down. No, stay down. Here, gimme your hand.” He takes Peter’s, and it’s cold, and frail, but he holds it like it’s the most precious thing he knows. There’s a feeble squeeze, and then medics are swarming him, stretchering the kid off, and May is glaring at him with all the wet-eyed fury he thoroughly expects from her._

 

_He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about this. Not until he looks down and sees the kid’s blood smeared on his hands._

 

 

  
●●●●●●●●●●●●

 

  
  
  


The dress rehearsal is supposed to be a nice, pedestrian runthrough, but Peter works himself like a Clydesdale. Tony knows it, he knows it. It’s either a fit of last-ditch hunger, or it’s because they don’t have use of the rink to themselves, and Peter can’t stand the thought of someone seeing the unfinished article looking any less than polished, pristine. He does it the first time, perfect. He does it again, and again, until Tony beckons him over with a whistle.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tone more placatory and tactile than it might usually be this close to a competition. “You good, Pete? Everything okay?”

 

Peter nods, and Tony understands implicitly. That’s an easily translatable expression.

 

“You skate like that tomorrow, and you’ll walk away with it. Just remember that it’s a friendly. I mean - sure, the money would be great, and you need the win, but it’s Nationals you’re aiming for. Win, please, but don’t hurt yourself trying. You’ve gotta get through Regionals in a couple weeks, and I need you there. That understood?”

 

Again, Peter nods. His chest is rising and falling like he’s run a marathon, and Tony reaches out, gently curls a hand at the nape of his neck, just lets him sag a little under the pressure of his palm. He’s not really a hugger, but it’s as close as he comes - at least, it is with Peter.

 

“Are we… are we done for today?” Peter wonders tentatively, and he kind of hates himself for how much he lets it sound like he _wants_ it to be, but he’s so tired, and he knows Tony won’t push him at the eleventh hour if that’s really the case. Either way, he gets the feeling he won’t.

 

Tony nods, his eyes softer. He has his doubts, sometimes. He knows Peter’s reckless, hot-headed, impulsive - just like he was at that age. But when he needs to show up and show out, the kid does. Except for that one, gaping tarnish on his record that neither of them acknowledge moving into the future. “Yeah, you’re done. You’re done. Good job today, kid. I’ll pick you up at five in the am, okay? You can sleep in the car if you wanna, but gets lots of shut-eye tonight. And eat. And-”

 

Peter’s laugh sounds like tinkling bells, and he shakes his head. Tony’s gonna give this speech every time, he’s starting to pick up on that. “I got it, I got it,” he concedes, teetering off the ice and once again shrinking onto the bench so he can shuck his skates, one at a time.

 

His mentor hovers for a moment, unable to shrug off the feeling that he hasn’t praised or reassured Peter enough, that he hasn’t adequately prepared him emotionally. That’s Tony’s trouble, really. Without any kind of positive, paternal influence to draw from, he knows he can be a real prick to the kid. Hard, frigid, colder than the ice they’re fighting to master. It’s not intentional, not deliberate; Tony just doesn’t know how best to spin all the plates at once without shattering the whole pile. He’s already done that once, he now understands that few things feel worse than failure.

 

Tony ruminates on returning to Peter, actually sitting with him - even in companionable silence - while the boy removes his skates, but then he spots movement from his periphery. A kid, can’t be much older than Peter. Taller, though. With sandy hair and earnest, blue eyes; a little wobbly on his blades, but evidently not in any danger of a bad spill anytime soon.

 

He approaches Peter, and they’re laughing in seconds, though they’re clearly unfamiliar with one another. Peter’s dimples indent like someone’s shot a bullet through them, and a flush spreads across his nose. There’s a girlish giggle - a sound Tony’s _never_ heard him make.

 

It’s information overload. It’s too much stimulus for his brain. Something stirs low in his gut. Something familiar, but unwelcome. Tony needs a drink.

 

 

  
  
●●●●●●●●●●●●

  
  


 

_“I’m not going to be working with you any longer. I just came here to tell you that. And to check up on you. You feeling good?”_

 

_Peter looks at him like he’s just tried to use his head for personal baseball practice, and Tony belatedly notes that tact is one of the many personality traits he needs to hone and perfect._

 

_“Wh-what are you talking about? Because I fell? Mr. Stark, you c-”_

 

_Tony raises a hand to stop him, and Peter obediently ceases his babbling. He opens and shuts his mouth redundantly for a few moments, but eventually submits. He’s too young to argue with a grown man. He’s a kid with a bump on his head and a wobbly lower lip._

 

_“I’m sorry, kid. This just isn’t working out. You’ll be able to find a new coach if you wanna get back in the game, but I just can’t - if something bad happens to you out there, that’s on me. I don’t think I can do it.”_

 

_He looks so hurt that Tony wants to take it back right away, but he sticks his heels. He’s putting Peter in danger with his own sloppiness, his inexperience. If the kid wants to carry on, he should do it on the tutelage of someone better, someone responsible. Tony doesn’t think he’s seen a wipeout as bad as Peter’s in his whole career, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to be the one who shoulders the blame if the kid kills himself next time._

 

_“I only wanna train with you,” Peter replies softly, his plush lower lip trembling sweetly._

 

_“Well, then you’re done,” Tony clarifies, and he feels like a heartless bastard. There’s candy in a paper bag. He doesn’t know what Peter likes, so it’s a mishmash of things from the gas station - chocolate, and sour, and toffee. Tony drops it on the bed, lets it settle between Peter’s knees. There’s no room for protest or argument, no comfort. May’s standing in the hallway, and he can practically hear her itch with how badly she wants to bodily throw him down the stairs on his way out. “Get well soon, kid.”_

 

_Then he’s gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this was gonna be a slow burn, and I did mean it. I just wanted to establish Peter and Tony equally as characters before I started building on a relationship, so here it comes. By the way, thanks so much for your lovely comments, I'm feeling super inspired! And, if I make any errors in writing about figure skating, I'd appreciate correction from aficionados. I'm pretty much blundering though I've done some research. Next update hopefully soon!

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a long time, I just didn't know if I'd be making it a fic or not until I started writing. Just a few notes to start:
> 
> \- There will be no underage sexual activity.  
> \- I'll be using italics to indicate flashbacks throughout this story. These are not linear and Peter is aged anywhere between 15 and 19, but I'll be sure to give some kind of hint alluding to his age so the timeline doesn't get all messy.  
> \- Christine is included as I just went with the most minor character I could think of without spending time making up a new one.  
> \- I'll be adding tags as I go and smut will appear a few chapters down the line, but I love a slow burn and I'm writing as I go.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think, as the more response and feedback I get, the more I'll be motivated!


End file.
